


Visiting Hours

by salamandelbrot



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: 1995, Kayfabe Compliant, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-19 12:51:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8209075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salamandelbrot/pseuds/salamandelbrot
Summary: Two hospital visits after Owen put HBK out of action.





	

**Author's Note:**

> ~Tell me a lie, and say that you won't gooooooo~

“Seriously, Bret, what are you doing here?”

“Just wanted to check up on you. I know you and Owen were close.”

“Close” as in Owen used to bring Shawn back to their hotel room, where they’d stay up all night fooling around while Bret tried unsuccessfully to sleep. God, they were obnoxious. But they had been sweet with each other, and it was good to see Owen be sweet with anyone anymore.

Bret didn’t think they were still seeing each other. He didn’t think Owen would have been gloating on Raw about putting Shawn out of action if they were. Not Owen. Please, God.

But his little brother wasn’t the one he needed to be worrying over right now. This obnoxious, arrogant kid, who he’d never liked, who he’d always known was a bad influence, was the one laying in the hospital bed and he needed to know that the Hitman was in his corner. 

“If you ever want to talk…”

“…I’ll find someone who even likes me. Jesus, come on.” Shawn turned away and scowled at the opposite wall. “It’s not like I’m all torn up about it or whatever.” He blinked rapidly. “I sure wasn’t fucking sitting here crying about it, until you have to go making it a big fucking deal.”

“Sorry.” 

“You never liked us going out anyways.”

Bret shrugged. “He’s my baby brother, you’re kind of wild. You do the math.”

* * *

Diesel felt like a traitor, slinking in here now, when he was allowed to visit. Sorry the Hitman’s punk brother enzuigiri’d your brain out your ear, buddy, I’ll pencil you in between the charity banquet and the meet-and-greet.

Shawn apparently didn’t get the memo that his tag team partner was a motherfucking worm, because he beamed up with a big bleary smile.

“Hey, Big Man.” 

“Hey.” He glanced around the room and raised an eyebrow. “Got enough casseroles?”

“Just about,” Shawn said with a grin. “Some of the boys came by.”

“So I see. Which classy fuck brought the vintage Fiestaware?” Diesel checked the card on the bright orange bakeware. “‘From Adam Bomb, with love.’ Shawn, you dog. I hope you used a lead condom.” 

Shawn snorted. “Don’t worry, I’m planning on dying in the ring before the radiation gets me.”

“Is that so?” 

“Doc says when I come back to the Fed it might kill me,” he said lightly.

“Shawn. I’m not an idiot. The doctor doesn’t say _when_ you come back it’ll kill you.”

“Only because he doesn’t know me.”

“Yeah,” Diesel sighed. “Yeah, I know.” He sat down in the shitty plastic chair by the bed and twined his fingers in Shawn’s. “If he doesn’t clear you, how long before you decide to find some quack who will?”

Shawn shrugged petulantly. “Couple months, maybe.”

“How about six? Think you can give it six months before you smear your brain across the canvas?” 

Shawn looked at him incredulously.

“And miss Wrestlemania? Are you fucking kidding me?”

Diesel squeezed his hand, looking down on him with a wry, fond smile. “If you’ve gotta commit suicide by wrestling, try not to do it in a match with me, huh?”

“Okay,” Shawn said softly, locking eyes with Diesel. Then he grinned, adding, “I’ll take it easy with you, to spare your poor, sensitive heart.”

“Thanks.” 

“No guarantees if it’s for the title, though.”

Diesel threw up his arms in only half-feigned exasperation. “I’m not giving you a fucking title shot!”

“You fucking owe me a fucking title shot!”

That was true enough, after the clusterfuck at last year’s Wrestlemania, but it was also beside the goddamn point.

“I don’t give a fuck, I’d have to Jackknife you to death to put you down. No.” 

“Then you should. You should Jackknife me to death. Kevin—”

Diesel rolled his eyed. “Oh, now you’re fucking Bob Backlund, that’s great. That’s fantastic.”

“—promise me, if you got the chance, you’d Jackknife me to death to keep the strap.” 

They frowned at each other in silence for a moment.

“This is the stupidest conversation we’ve ever had.”

“Hey, I’ve got brain damage, what’s your excuse?”

“Get some sleep, Shawn.”


End file.
